


The birds and the bees, they're all wise to the lies

by sigmalibrae



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmalibrae/pseuds/sigmalibrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty rubs one hand over the back of the other, lays them on top of his thighs, feels the denim rasp under his fingertips, clasps them in between his knees. Watches Crash glance up between them with this look in his eyes. Marty’s got to turn away. A hot trail, like a finger, tracing from the top of his head down his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The birds and the bees, they're all wise to the lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts), [voidbuilder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidbuilder/gifts), [jesuisherve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisherve/gifts).



He’s sitting on a chair in the starkness of Rust’s living room but it’s different somehow; enough so that he feels slightly off-kilter.

The lamps are on, bare bulbs throwing harsh light up against the walls while the lampshades take up cast-aside residency against the baseboards. It gives an amber-whiskey cast to the entire place. The shadows are treacle instead of charcoal. There’s paraphernalia scattered across the kitchen counters that Marty isn’t sure he wants to know the backstory for – lengths of flexible soft rubber hose, clear glass beakers, eyedroppers, rolls of dun-coloured packing tape like flesh-tone latex.

Rust is hunkered on another chair drawn up before his open storage locker. The bottle of Jameson held loosely in his fingers doesn’t require much explanation. Marty, a little rueful, wishes it needed more, but bites his tongue when Rust takes another pull and hands it across the space between them.

He’s suddenly glad he’s drunk as Rust leans back in his chair, legs thrown wide, long hands drawing his white undershirt up his chest. Three scars, puckered like paler stars across the spread of Rust’s ribcage (visible through his skin). Marty swallows hard, whiskey a burn at the back of his throat. He tells himself that’s what’s making his ears warm.

When Rust has hauled himself up, gone across the room – and Christ, it even seems to Marty that Rust is _moving_ differently, some predatory edge to his walk, a sharpness and quickness to his motions – that’s when Marty opens out the front of the leather jacket he casually flung on earlier in the evening. The leather supple, creaking lightly with age and care, the dry animal scent of it. Then, he had felt daring. A little heady, exhilaration in the novelty of the garment. So different from the corduroy and cotton he was used to seeing on Rust.

Now, as he pokes a finger through the ragged edges of holes made by bullets…

He’s not sure what he’s feeling.

The jacket falls back into place. He imagines he feels triple points, burning on his ribcage, left of centre.

\--

Crash leaves no room to get a word in edgewise. He doesn’t compromise. Brokers no argument. Gives even less quarter. With Rust, at least Marty feels like there’s some sort of give-and-take. Each waiting for his turn in the conversation, however impatiently or caustically.

Crash?

He startles Marty. Trips him up, catches him unawares. There’s little patience, not even for Marty to have time to formulate questions or request clarification. There’s no grey spaces. Only yes or no. Do you understand. Yes. Or no.

It’s mildly infuriating, is what it is. But Marty is out of his league. Even with his pride, he can admit that to himself while he’s sitting in Rust’s apartment, watching as Rust slips a hypodermic expertly home. Pinpricks run down the back of his neck, a distant cousin. Ink and cayenne. The way the tendons stand out on Rust’s forearm, the swell of the muscles leading up to his shoulders. The concentration on his brow. Beads of sweat on Rust’s forehead mirroring the ones on Marty’s own. Is it hot in the apartment?

Marty is watching a plan being enacted. There was no discussion beforehand. There isn’t any useful input he could give. What he can do is sit, watch, observe, listen. He rubs one hand over the back of the other, lays them on top of his thighs, feels the denim rasp under his fingertips, clasps them in between his knees. Watches Crash glance up between them with this _look_ in his eyes. Marty’s got to turn away. A hot trail, like a finger, tracing from the top of his head down his spine.

He’s pretty good at reading people, most days. Crash wears the look of someone completely in his element. Totally in-tune, on-board, switched in.

It’s a new look. A disturbing look for Rust. That ain’t all it is.

\--

The light in the kitchen is still on and slatting across the floor. Rust doesn’t use the bedroom in this shithole, of course he doesn’t, he sleeps on a fucking mattress in the living room with nothing but a fitted sheet between him and its surface. It’s a mattress he moved into this room when it became apparent that Marty would be needed for the duration of their little project, to keep abreast, to be informed of what they’d be doing. There’s no mention of where Rust would be sleeping. Presumably, he won’t be.

He wouldn't want to be home right now anyways. As far as Maggie's concerned, Marty might as well... Better off he can't go there. Not now. 

Crash – Rust, he means Rust- at least tossed a few blankets in here after Marty. Army issue, fairly standard, thick wool. Utilitarian. Of course.

Marty can’t get over the feeling of space in the room, the open air, the unyielding quiet. There’s blue light coming in through the window blinds from the moon, and the light from under the door creeping across the floor towards him. Now and again he can hear Rust in the kitchen. Moivng around. Prowling around. The clink of a bottle. Is he drinking again? Marty has a feeling the verb is wrong. Not again. Still. Still drinking. Crash keeps out of his own head in a more straightforward way than Rust does. Crash is Rust when Rust well and truly doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

So much fucking space in here. Space and the quiet. It’s like he can hear his breath echoing off the walls. He can hear his heart pulse in his ears.

The blankets are a rasping weight on Marty. He rubs one arm absently, just to give himself a difference in sensation. Something other than the gaping air. The hand moves over his chest to his ribcage. He presses down slightly, pays attention to how his chest rises when he breathes. In the kitchen something rattles. A cupboard door closes softly. Rust’s footpads across the floor.

Marty ain’t gonna sleep any time soon. He breathes in and out. On the third exhale, he holds his breath out, eyes flicking idly over the ceiling. Couldn’t hurt. He’s good at staying quiet even when there’s someone else involved, if he really wants to be. Rust ain’t gotta know. Enough layers between. Wash the sheets. Or just toss them off. It’s warm enough in the apartment. His hand’s still resting on his chest. He kicks the blankets down his legs. Hand slips lower, stops just below his navel, where his hipbones start to curve inwards, where the waistband of his boxers is. Waits a breath, two, the span of three. Inhales again, this time through his nose. There are still faint noises far and away, far and away.

Marty sucks in a breath between his teeth when he slips his fingers below the waistband and takes himself in hand, if only because… well shit, it appears tonight it’s gonna take less effort than he thought to get it up. He smells smoke faintly and thinks Rust might’ve lit a cigarette. Smells like Rust every-fuckin’-where, it’s in the blankets. In the mattress. Marty strokes himself evenly, closes his eyes against the ceiling. He stops, fidgets, readjusts how he’s lying on the mattress. Keeps going.

Swipes a thumb over the head of his penis and hisses, then falls still for a heart-thudding moment. Doesn’t matter how… _familiar_ guys are with each other, with what _needs_ are, with how a good jerk off is sometimes the only way to send yourself to bed, it wouldn’t do to have Rust hear. No change. Marty thinks he hears Rust moving closer to the hallway where the bedroom door is – hears the bathroom door creak open, then close just across the way. Hears water running. The sink tap, not the shower. What’s Rust up to?

Marty pictures Rust standing in front of the mirror. How he gets that quietly wrecked look on his face when he’s been drinking. How his hair gets tousled and some of it falls across his forehead. The casual disarray the guy falls into. Thinks about him leaning over his sink basin with his shoulders hunched, wearing that white undershirt, thinks about the scars on his ribcage. How he’s probably staring at himself in the mirror from under dark disconcerting eyes. How those eyes have that spark of wildness in them right now.

Marty’s hand seems to have started moving again of its own accord, and he’s _definitely_ got his own attention now. But he can’t stop thinking about Rust leaning into the mirror, a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, his long fingers reaching up to take it in hand and ash it into the bathroom sink. The stark whiteness everywhere.

What _would_ Rust do if he walked in on Marty right now?

Marty bites off a groan when something sparks between his hips at that and it’s a bit bewildering, a bit fucked up that he’s thinking about this, he should stop this train of thought dead in its fucking tracks. His hand goes a little faster. His other one trails up from his navel, then falls to the side, elbow bent and hand falling just beside his head. He shifts it a little, brings it up over his head.

What would _Crash_ do?

He tries to picture the room door suddenly flying open and what he’d see, darkly silhouetted there, the thin light from behind surrounding Crash like a haze. The derisive snort. The paralysis that’d take over – Marty stops, his breath catches, his eyes are still closed – and how Crash would settle over him, how the mattress would bend in beneath his weight, knees on either side of Marty’s hips, how he’d lean down. How he’d lean over. What he’d look like above him. His eyes a dark glitter.

How he’d reach one hand out and run his fingers through Marty’s hair before grabbing on tightly and tilting his head back. Maybe saying something like “Look, Marty, look at me” or “Be still”. Voice a low gravelly drawl, the scent of cigarettes on his breath, his mouth dropped open. The harsh tang of his sweat.

Marty groans. He takes himself up again but it’s not his hand running up one thigh, pressing hot against his cock and then moving back down again, it’s Crash, watching Marty’s head fall back, hand still tight in his hair, it’s Crash leaning in to whisper roughly into his ear about… what, what would he even say? Would it matter? Heat coiling low in his belly, how goddamn hard he is, how fucked up this is, how it’d feel to have Crash grab his wrist, pin it up, can’t move a goddamn inch, he’s pinning Marty down with his body weight.

Crash asking him if this is what he wanted, thrusting a hand down Marty’s boxers.

“Fuck-” Marty gasps, quiet, desperate. How the body heat would roll off of Rust, how Marty wouldn’t be able to help it, would have to move his hips into Crash’s grip like…

The bathroom door closes again. Rust’s footsteps in the hall, though they pause. Marty can’t stop, not now, brings his other hand down from where it’s been pressing feverishly into the mattress, brings it in front of his mouth, bites down. On the knuckles, hard. Then just opens out his hand. Covers his own mouth with it. Crash would do that, he thinks, Marty thinks Crash would, moans low against the shield of his own hand, he’s going jerky on himself, can’t keep it steady anymore. How much heat’s there, building. Storm clouds on the distance. Crash’s breath coming quick and uneven with Marty’s own. How he’d comment on Marty’s hands cause they’d be fisting in the sheets, clutching for purchase, scrabbling for it, pale-knuckled.

Did Rust start walking again?

How Crash would sense it like a smell. Would casually ask Marty-

_You gonna come anytime soon?_

In waves, and waves, and waves. Sparks of bright against the black on the inside of his eyelids. Heat rushing through his limbs. In small helpless twists against the mattress while his hand falls away from his mouth, his mouth fallen open, how hard it is not to make anything but the quietest choked off noises. How when it subsides, he’s hot and sticky against his own inner leg, his boxers disgusting, panting, coming down from somewhere. How when he finally opens his eyes, the light coming in under the door has gone dimmer. How he can’t hear much of movement anymore.

Marty covers his eyes with his arm.

Falls asleep, this time in spite of himself.

\--

He can’t look Rust in the eye when he walks in the kitchen the next day, finds Rust sitting at the table poring over files. Cup of coffee steaming on the counter. Rust nods towards it.

“That’s yours.”

Marty grunts assent. Grunts thanks. Shuffles over feeling like the penitent. Goes to sit at the table; realizes the chair he was gonna use has Crash’s jacket draped over the back of it and almost stops, almost moves it. Realizes that’d be a giveaway.

At last looks up. Rust’s stare is keen, even with the dark circles underneath his eyes, the slight glaze that comes over them when you didn’t sleep a wink.

“What?” Marty snaps, only realizing he’s snapped when he’s already said it. Tries to cover it up with a yawn.

Rust shrugs, stretches, shuffles a paper on the desk. “Sleep alright?”

“Right enough considering… considering you ain’t got any notion of back support. Ever heard of a box spring?” Marty takes a swig of the coffee and nearly chokes when it burns his tongue. Scalds his throat on the way down. He forces himself not to cough.

Rust doesn’t reply. Gestures back down the hall with the tilt of his chin. “Shower’s free if y’need one. Won’t have a chance later on. We’re getting close.”

“Close to what?” Marty croaks.

Level stare. Something that might pass for humour back in Rust’s eyes. “Crash. He’s gonna make a comeback real soon, we hit up that bike club. Lazarus from the grave. Need to know you’ll be focused for your part of it all.”

He wants Rust to stop _looking_ at him like that. “Focused enough. Where’re your towels?”

“Under the sink.”

Marty sets his mug down on the counter too hard and is halfway turned around when Rust says, “an’ Marty..?”

“What?”

He turns again and Rust is moving towards him, deliberate, fast. Scans him up and down. Leans in. His breath tickles Marty’s ear. Scant centimetres before his lips would touch Marty’s neck. He hopes Rust doesn’t notice the shiver that runs through him. Knows he probably did.

“Can smell it on you even if there ain’t no second person involved.”

He’s got a lazy half-smile on his face when Marty flushes, splutters, stumbles down the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my assertion that more exploration needs to be made of Marty's... more submissive tendencies when it comes to sex. The work's title comes from the song 'The Mission' by puscifer, which you have voidbuilder to thank for.


End file.
